


Just to be better

by FancifulRivers



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: But I haven't done very many routes myself so, Gender Neutral Main Character, I guess maybe 707 route spoilers in here, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Multi, Non Binary Main Character, Other, Polyamory, Self-Harm, Spoilers maybe, Suicide Attempt, There's not really a lot of romantic stuff I'm just covering my bases here I guess?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8259704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancifulRivers/pseuds/FancifulRivers
Summary: "Perfectionism is self abuse of the highest order." -Anne Wilson SchaefOr: in which MC has a breakdown over the party and attempts to do something they shouldn't. Their partners intervene.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first chapter is probably the most triggering, self harm wise.
> 
> This isn't going to be that many chapters.

You know you're going to regret this in the morning.

You always do. The criss-cross of bloody lines on your upper thighs (that always sting) or the purple-black cluster of bruises blooming on your hips (that throb dully every time they brush against your waistband). You don't often use overdoses as self harm (you're too afraid of dying) but when you do, you  _definitely_ regret those. The stomach cramps, the nausea that claws up your throat, the brain fog and shakiness.

You're going to regret it, but it's not like the guilt-soaked burn of that regret is going to  _stop_ you, you think, laughing shakily as you sit back in the chair (not  _your_ chair, of course, this is  _Rika's_ chair and you're defiling it like you defile every other goddamn thing in this apartment) and pull your skirt up. You know you're still on surveillance camera, but you really, really don't give a fuck. 

Seven probably won't look anyway. He's too much of a gentleman, ridiculously so. And what's going to happen if he does see? Will he break up with you? He can barely admit he has feelings for you anyway and to be honest, you know he shouldn't. He thinks he's the bad one, but you're the one who's tainted.

No one's confirmed they're coming to the party yet.

The others have consoled you already. Jaehee tells you that they were like this with Rika, too, and Jumin agrees. Zen reassures you that it's nothing personal and even Yoosung and Seven give you some words of comfort.

But it's not enough.

It will never be enough because you know that it doesn't matter. It's  _not_ the same and they just don't want to admit it. They don't want to admit you aren't  _like_ their precious Rika. You aren't good and kind and gentle. You aren't like an angel come down from Heaven at all. You're rotten to the core, every blotch on you further proof that you're a bad apple, and they should throw you out before you spoil the entire association.

You know they'd ask you to leave if it wasn't for the bomb. 

"It's not safe for you to leave," Seven's told you, and it's not that you disbelieve him. You do. You just- 

Well, if it wasn't for the fact you don't want the rest of Rika's apartment to blow up, you'd probably walk out anyway.

"What a failure," you mouth to yourself, trying to make sure none of the cameras pick up on it. 

You've always been a failure. Did no one wonder why it was so easy for you to pick up and move into a stranger's apartment, you think, and have to bite down hard on your bottom lip to stifle the giggles. It doesn't matter.

This- you pull free the pencil sharpener blade, wiggled free ages ago and wrapped in tissue paper, from your purse- this is what matters. This and then you can sleep. The dam will burst, you'll feel possibly less like a whiny good-for-nothing, your skin will scab over, and another night will pass without anyone knowing what a ridiculous fuck-up you are.

Just a couple of lines. Your hands are shaking. They always do, just a bit. You're nervous because you know it's going to hurt and you like the pain, but you don't at the same time. It's the anticipation really. Once it's done, you're calm, relaxed (you can breathe again), but until then, you're wound up tight.

One cut becomes two, and you bite your bottom lip in anticipation, steadying your hand for a third. Blood drips down your skin, onto the wad of kleenex you've prepared for this eventuality. You're good at being prepared. Just one more time, you decide and as you bring the pencil sharpener blade down, the window smashes open and you realize you're about to meet the hacker face to face- with your skirt rucked up and your hands full of bloody tissues.

"Fuck," you say weakly. Judging by the intruder's pale face and wide eyes, he seems to agree.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe I've had this half written since October? I hate it when I lose inspiration midway through...Anyway, here you go!

"It's not what it looks like," you try next as the blade clatters to the floor, but you're pretty sure it's  _exactly_ how it looks like and- why are you arguing with someone who just broke into your apartment? 

"Don't move," he says. He sounds like he's trying to be gentle (and like it's something that doesn't come easily). "You might hurt yourself on the glass."

_Like I care about hurting myself, obviously,_ you snort and spin the chair round, trying to keep your eyes on him at the same time you hunt for some kind of weapon. Since you kind of dropped yours. And a pencil sharpener blade is useless against someone who  _broke_ the  _window_ , how did he even get up here? And Seven said the glass was bulletproof-

"I can take you somewhere," the hacker offers quietly. "To paradise."

"I hope you realize that sounds like paradise is a dumpster in an alleyway," you say, backing away until you bump up into a wall.  _I could really use some help right about now..._ You think in desperation.

"It's not!" Now he sounds offended. Great. You've pissed off the guy who's going to kill you. He has pink tips in his hair and a weird eye tattoo on his shoulder and you really don't want to meet his eyes.

"Okay, I believe you," you placate, holding your hands out in a conciliatory gesture until you realize you're still holding the blood-stained tissues and drop them like they're poison. "Just uh- Why don't you go back out the window, however you got through that, and I'll just stay in here and-"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "You're coming with me."

He reaches for you and you scream.

The front door slams open not a minute later, and Luciel is somehow, impossibly, there.

"Let her go!" he shouts, and it's only then you realize there are fingers around your wrist, tugging you forward, broken glass or not.

"Saeran?" Seven says a moment later, in this hurt, wounded voice you've never heard him use before and hope you never hear again, because it's more painful than the cuts on your thighs burning bloody notice into your skin.

The hacker, Saeran, is furious. He hates Seven, you can tell that straight off, even if you have no idea why. You're not sure it matters, not when you're technically probably about to die. It's kind of funny in a terrible sort of way. This morning you would have said straight off that you deserved death and you'd welcome it with open arms. Now that it's come for you, it's terrifying.

So you bite him.

It works somehow ( _you_ certainly aren't going to question how) and Seven protects you as you sag in relief, the touch of his fingers warm and welcome on your forearm. The world goes fuzzy and it's only eons later- minutes later- you realize that Saeran is gone and you're still alive. The sound of your breathing is very loud.

"MC?" Seven says and your eyes jerk up to him. "You're bleeding."

"Um," you say, and he guides you to a chair.

You wonder if you can try the same line you gave the hacker out on Luciel. Somehow you doubt it.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I had half of it written, then stalled on the rest. (Which is sad when it's so short :P ).

"It must be from the glass?" You try out weakly, though how you are supposed to explain why broken window glass would have cut you so  _high_ , you haven't the faintest. Seven's not buying it anyway, you can see the doubt in his expression.

He bends over, fresh kleenex clasped in his hand, and when he comes up again, your pencil sharpener blade is carefully tweezed between thumb and forefinger. Your blood still stains the metal.

"Um," you say again. Your ears are buzzing again, and black static licks the edges of your vision. "I-" Tears spill down your face.

"No, don't cry!" Luciel bursts out, looking panicked. He drops the pencil sharpener blade onto the desk, now wrapped in blood-stained tissue. "It's okay, MC, I'm sorry, please don't cry-"

"I'm not," you blubber out, but it's a bit ridiculous to deny it when you're sure your face is splotched red, your eyes are swollen, and your nose can't stop running. From the look of it, Seven knows it too as he's looking around for fresh tissues, ones that you can actually wipe your face with and not stripe it red. 

"I'm such an idiot," you mumble into the handful of kleenex he gives you. You don't intend for him to hear you, but you know he does when his arms very carefully come around you, patting your back like you're just as fragile as the shattered window. Maybe you are.

Uncomfortable silence reigns as he fumbles through the first aid kit, looking up at you with eyes that beg mute permission to take care of your wounds. You nod, although you don't want to. The alcohol wipes sting, but you ignore it. You deserve the pain anyway.

"Who-who was he?" You ask, when the last bandage is affixed to your skin. His face immediately shutters closed and you clamp your lips shut, like you can take back the words.

"Someone I know," he says, and that's that. "I'll get the window repaired."

"Okay," you whisper, withdrawing into yourself, curling up on the sofa with your phone. The new messages on the app mock you. You know you should read them, but you can't be assed. Not while your thighs still burn and your own self hatred locks your throat up until it hurts. Instead, you look down at your lap, tracing the threads in your skirt like they mean something. You don't know that Seven's done with his phone calls until he sits down on the sofa next to you and the cushions sag under your combined weight.

"MC?" He asks, and you half-turn, carefully not looking into his eyes. "We should uh- talk about this?"

You wonder if you can fling yourself out the broken window instead.


End file.
